Mademoiselles of Notre Dame
by 875265
Summary: Hardly any Disney movies are a cry to challenge gender norms quite like The Hunchback of Notre Dame. What if Quasimodo was a girl? What if Esmeralda was a guy? What if Frollo was a nun? How would the story be different? You get the picture? Let's find out! (This should be fun.)
1. Chapter 1

**Modette liked the bluebirds the best.** The brown ones ignored her and the white ones always tried to steal whatever food she happened to be eating. However, she knew it was ironic for her, Modette the monstrosity, tucked away up in the bell tower because of her hideous face to judge anything by its appearance. The brown and white-colored birds deserved appreciation, too. So she held out the leftover food in her hand for the birds to dive into, and once satisfied, they flew off.

Modette used to love her home in the bell tower; she really did. For years she thought it a comforting barricade against the outside world but despite herself again, she could not say that any longer. It was dark up there, it was dank, she heard scuffling in the walls. The constant ringing of the bells was starting to give her migraines. The light only peered into the room when the sun was tilted at a certain angle-12:30, to be exact (and even then for only about five minutes). Modette had been swaddled and introduced to the tower as a babe twenty years ago by the leader of Notre Dame's ever-pure, ever-holy order of Catholic nuns Froella. But who she just called Mother.

However, after two decades of being forced to stay upstairs, suffice it to say that it made Modette a bit restless. The creaky flights of stairs made it not conducive to stepping out for air in the night or even for _Heaven forbid_ sneaking out. But why would she want to? Everything she needed was up here. Her dear friends made of stone-whom she called Victoria, Hugo and Laverne-provided her with great company and musical numbers. Except Modette could not talk to them when Froella was near, or she would get twelve lashes on her back to counter insanity.

Just then, the door swung open. It was her mother, Froella, with a basket. What could it be? Modette's mouth began to water. A treat? But it wasn't even Saturday.

"Hello, pet. Ready for our lesson today?" Froella gave a sweet smile that seemed to stretch tightly across her mouth, accenting her wrinkles. She pulled the cloth back to reveal grapes. Red—Modette's favorite.

"Yes, Mother. I would like that very much… " Modette scurried around the room, getting the tablecloth, setting the table for alphabet review. She was at the point now that she could get to P blindfolded— _paedobaptism._ Froella set her napkin on her lap and began. "A?"

"Abomination," Modette said.

"B."

"Blasphemy."

"C?"

"C-c-contrition."

"D?"

"Damnation."

"E."

"E _ternal_ damnation."

"F."

"Festival-"

Froella almost choked on her drink. "What was that?"

"Forgiveness! I-I meant forgiveness."

Froella rose from her seat. "I heard festival."

"No… !" Modette covered her face. _Here it comes…_

"I hope you're not thinking of attending that festival, crawling with raucous noise and the pagan bottom-feeders of Paris that I as a nun of the highest religious order in the world must cleanse." Froella walked over to the mirror and straightened her coif.

"No, Mother. I was just thinking about somet—"

Froella shook her head. She lowered herself to her daughter's height and took her chin. "Modette, my dear, how many times must I drill it into your head? Your deformity would make it utterly impossible for anybody in the world to accept you. Your wart sits above your right eye, your nose turns up, you have a bald spot in the middle of your head, your face is shaped like an upside-down triangle and you are unable to stand up straight. Do you really think you could enjoy yourself at such a spectacle? Where the lot of them would be making a spectacle of you?"

Modette shook her head and her eyes started to water.

"Ohh tsk my dear, don't cry, don't cry. Try not to take it so hard. What is it that have I taught you all these years?"

Modette straightened up, as best as she could. "The world is cruel. The world is wicked."

Froella nodded. "I have an obligation to protect you, so that is why I tell you: trust no one. The people out there don't care— _I_ care. Now let's pray."

She took her daughter's hands and led her in asking the Lord's forgiveness—the word Modette missed. Then Froella kissed her daughter on the forehead, shook her habit free of dust, and swept out of the door.

Modette's mouth would not stop twitching and the last tear fell as she watched her mother go. She sat there like a lump on a log for what felt like hours. It wasn't fair—Froella got to attend the Feast of Fools every year while Modette heard the colorful sounds from above. And although her mother passionately explained to her that she did not enjoy a moment, it did not stop Modette from wanting to see for herself.

 _But what would God think?_ Would he still love her if she betrayed the mother who kept her, fed her, dressed her? She hated this contrition, derived from simply her thoughts.

She hated it so much that the sentiment sparked something in Modette. A rebellion of sorts, that caused her to grab her coat and leap over the balcony to the celebration below.


	2. 2

**For Clopine, there was no greater honor than being** Queen of the Gypsies, and there was no better day to enact fair representation to her subjects than today. It was the day of the annual Feast of Fools! The slim Romani girl would showcase her puppets on the streets without the people of France either giving her a puzzling look or running in terror. They were handmade after all, passed down through generations for entertainment, and she wanted to make them known.

The Feast of Fools was a chance for the gypsies of Paris to share their arts and crafty talents with the townspeople in an effort to show them they are here to help for the common good.

The same people came every year. The gypsies, her royal subjects came walking into the tent in a hurried queue. Including that delicious, green-eyed fellow in particular that she could never peel her eyes from when he took the stage. "Hey, Esmer!" Clopine bellowed to him. "Try not to look so serious; it's a festival, not a funeral."

The boy gave her a sideways glance, and in it, a glint of mischief.

Life was good; all of the performers seemed to be present. But there was one face she did not recognize.

Well, not really a face—this woman's visage was completely devoured by a woolen shawl. She clearly was not one of the performers, for she was white as the snow. The way she jumped whenever someone rubbed against her told Clopine that this girl did not come by often.

"What are we going to do about her?" she asked her hand puppet Daisy. "Feed her to the lions? Throw her in the Seine? Take her to the red light district?"

"Introduce yourself. Introduce her to the world! Show her there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Nyeh, who asked you," Clopine muttered, pocketing the goody-goody. "Goody-goody. _Fille!"_

The four-and-a-half foot fille looked around, not knowing where the voice came from.

Clopine let out a cackle. "Over here, woman." Daisy bounced up and down excitedly as the girl cautiously approached. "What's your name?"

"M-M-Mo—"

"Mo? Your name is Mo? I like Mo. That was my best friend growing up. I don't think I've seen you around before. You been to the Feast of Fools?"

"No. I mean yes. I mean no, not physically. I mean I've seen everything from up—"

"Enough." Clopine leaned over, her dark hair devouring the girl's face, and pinned her turtle dove for newcomers to her chest.

"What's this for?"

"For luck. My Feast of Fools' can get wild and crazy. I like you, Mo; I don't want anything to happen to you. By the way, my name's Clopine."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me—thank my hand puppet Daisy. She wanted me to be nice; I wanted to toss you in the dungeon." Clopine shrugged and stuck her hat on her head as Mo's smile faded. "Gotta go; I'm hosting this whole shindig. Where you sitting?"

"I don't know. I guess I was just gonna sit in the back-"

"There is no sitting at the Feast of Fools, only standing. Get a spot in the front—Parisians be aggressive." Clopine skipped off, leaving her new friend standing in the middle of the pandemonium. She returned not two seconds later with a bouquet of green and red blossoms. "And if you have a second before the show starts, deliver these. I know it's not right of a queen to show favoritism, but my subject Esmer is so smoking that you have to give him these flowers personally. Don't tell him I fantasize about him every chance I get."

"Why don't you give them to him?"

"Because I have a show to host! But tell him Clopine paid for them."

"How will I find him?"

"Mysterious gypsy, black hair, enchanting green eyes, about yay tall." Clopine reached her hand up as high as she could. "Esmer, up in there! You'll know him when you see him." She shoved Mo into the fray and bounded off.


	3. 3

_**My goodness,**_ **Modette was** thinking. _Was this_ really _what the city was like?_

Yes, from behind the windows and the parapets of stone, she had gazed upon the people of Paris. She had seen the millers and the weavers and their wives—the way they shouted and scolded and went about their lives had made her hungry to see more. It was so noisy and rushed and the ground was kind of wet and the smells around were that of food and heat. Needless to say, Modette was going through a bit of culture shock.

Maybe she should turn back. Froella was out there. She didn't want to disappoint her again.

She was so frazzled and all over the place that she didn't even notice she was crumpling the flowers in her clammy palms. Before anything, Modette wanted to get them to whoever they were meant for. Then she could go hide. After all, Froella had always instilled in her the value of honoring her promise.

Modette turned toward the first person in her vicinity. The man, leaning against the tent, smoking a hookah made eye contact with her that was so fierce it immediately caused her to avert her gaze.

"Um, sorry," she murmured. "Have you seen… Do you know where someone named Esmer is?"

 _Whoosh_. The man blew a ring of smoke in her face that she had to struggle not to cough up and jutted his chin to a nearby tent. "He's in there. You one of his groupies?"

Modette didn't know what that word meant. "Uh, no. The girl… Clopine sent me to give this to him."

"Figures. Been lusting after him ever since he set foot in her colony."

"Oh."

"Can't blame her though. Sexy, mischievous, always staring into your soul with those emerald eyes? Just look at him. How can you not fall in love with him?"

"Oh." Modette almost wished this seemingly lovestruck man could deliver the flowers for her. Froella was in the audience, taking her seat in the caravan. Missing her daughter by mere feet.

"There's nothing to be scared of, doll. His bark is worse than his bite." It took a minute for Modette to realize what the man was talking about. And he shoved the flowers into the girl's hands and tossed her into the tent in question.

Modette came crashing in, tearing it down half of the barrier and exposing what was inside to the whole world. She looked up and came face to face with a tall, dark gypsy with green eyes and a single gold earring. It was the boy—Esmer.

He was basically naked with the towel wrapped around his bottom half. "Can I help you?"

Modette lifted the shawl, averting her eyes. "I'm so sorry." She was mortified.

The man didn't seem to be. If anything, he was only mildly surprised. "You're not hurt, are you?" He approached. "Here, here; let's see…"

"No!" She drew the cloth closer. "Please."

Esmer backed off, chuckling. "Okay, okay. I won't look at your mask. Just know that I've seen worse. Dated worse." He shook his head. "Forgive me, I'm prattling on; what brings you to my tent?"

"Uh…"

"Are those for me?"

Modette had completely forgotten about the flowers. They were kind of smushed together now. She thrust them out, reddening.

The boy brought them to his nose. "They're lovely. From Clopine, I'm guessing?"

"Y… Yes."

"I thought so. The acacia symbolizes secret love, the angrec means royalty and the apple blossom means _'I prefer you.'_ " Esmer laughed out loud. "And then, the arbutus means _'You are the only one I love,'_ as if she couldn't get more obvious."

Modette let out a short laugh and snorted. She covered her mouth.

Esmer chuckled. "Poor thing. I'm keeping you from something, I'm sure. Are you staying for the show?"

"Yes!" she managed, forcing more confidence this time.

"Good. I'll be in it. But do me a favor—just try to be a little more careful." Modette wanted to die. _But what was she supposed to do?_ It wasn't entirely her fault. She was bucketed about and knocked into the tent like she was some kind of… But the boy was looking at her with kind eyes. "For me?"

"I will!"


	4. 4

**There was nothing on God's green earth that Froella** detested (next to drink stains on the kitchen table) any more than the Feast of Fools. Just the name itself sounded anything less than dignified. That penny-skinned girl flitting about the town, shouting in people's ears with that high voice of hers was grating on her nerves.

She bounded onto the stage with that God forsaken puppet on her hand. "And now, ladies and gentlemen! Here it is, the moment you've been waiting for! Here it is, you know exactly what's in store! Now's the time we laugh until our sides get sore…"

(If God permitted, Froella would have her strung up on a tree at that very moment, but patience. Patience was a virtue.)

"Okay, folks, you've waited long enough. And now for _the Feast of Foooooooooools!"_

Froella sat back in her seat, immediately regretting not feigning sick to the guards.

The show was exactly what Froella expected it would be; a masterpiece of misery and woe. Hordes of them, cartwheeling all over that stage. Breathing fire. Blasting that horn, "dancing," doing the splits. A girl was shaking a tambourine and the women were shaking more than that. Froella pulled her habit closer to her chest. _What a disgusting display_.

The men basically did the same and were not that memorable… except for one. Just _one_ that stuck out in her mind.

She had never seen this man before, and she had attended the Feast of Fools as a special guest for over thirty years. He was an acrobat; one of those contortionist freaks that unholy troupe paraded into town every year.

But when he bended it didn't look painful. And at least he wasn't ugly like the rest of them. No… he was not like the rest of them at all.

Froella straightened up. He had dark skin, green eyes like that of an earth-bound emerald. The boy had an air of confidence about him as he made art with his body, creating shapes no French acrobat Froella had seen in her life could ever dream of. His feet went from being behind him to on the ground right in front of his face. His feet-the beautifully, gracefully pointed ones.

On the tightrope, he did not waver once. The flips he did on the stage, the handstands… The mental concentration that must have taken was astounding. She could not believe he had yet to screw up given his young age _-what was he twenty-four? Twenty-five?_ Who _was_ this boy?

What did it matter?

Every muscle in his body tensed with the effort. The sweat stood out on his brow. Thick, ropy muscles gleamed in the sunlight. The boy's legs extended, seeming to go on forever. He could take care of her easily, she thought. She imagined herself in his arms. What would happen if she slid herself between…

Good God in Heaven. Froella snatched a pamphlet from one of her nearby soldiers to fan herself. _What on Earth was she thinking?_ Who was this man who thought he could simply waltz up onto the stage and introduce these impure thoughts into her righteous mind?

This was against everything the cathedral of Our Lady held dear. Froella was a nun. She had taken a vow of chastity and encouraged her followers to refrain from such pleasures. Her life was about helping those in need, not slobbering over men in the circus. Gypsy men in the circus at that. No, not today. _Not today, Satan._


	5. 5

**When the final act of the Feast of Fools ended, Modette** clapped so hard her hands hurt. She was in disbelief of what she just saw. How could people twist and bend their body that way? And the fact that they did it over and over for a living, for entertainment… Times like these made her certain she would never go back to the bell tower again. She could disguise herself as a disfigured old lady and live off the scraps of the gypsy troupe. She could watch Esmer contort all day, all night.

Modette was all smiles. Big mistake. In her excitement, she did not even realize the sides of her shawl had fallen away. The lady next to her caught sight of her face and gasped. "A monster!"

The girl's heart stopped. She caught wind of more cries of more all around: "Disgusting!"

"What is it?"

"The _sewage!_ It lives!"

Froella's attention was on Modette, her head turned in her direction by now. Her arms were crossed, mouth twisted in a tight scowl. If Modette went home now, she was going to die. Even Clopine, who was shoving the boy off the stage was watching Modette with a tilted head.

Esmer was staring too. His face looked like _"Oh. So that wasn't a mask? Looks like we're not the only outcasts after all!"_ Well, even so… He told her he had seen worse!

And poor Modette. Poor, sweet, sad Modette-all she could do was just cover her face and cry. She made a fool of herself, but she guessed if anyone else was jeered in front of an audience and told they looked like a monster, they'd cry as well.

She was going to _get it_ when she got home.

 **Modette's arm was about to turn into dust as Froella's** grip hardened and she tossed her against the wall of her room. "What did I tell you about leaving the cathedral?" she demanded the minute the festival ended. "And against my wishes?"

Modette staggered up as best she could. She squeezed her arm—nothing. "I'm sorry… "

"And against God at that! And you've been falling behind in your prayer calendar; I haven't heard you keep track of it lately when I leave your room at night. And you say you want to be a nun."

"I'm sorry, Mother. I—"

"And the way you and that gypsy boy were looking at each other on the stage… You two must have something going on, Heaven help the both of you."

"No, Mother. I swear I don't even know—"

Froella slapped her across the face. It must have felt good, because she did it again. "Now you're swearing," she said, belching fire. "I did not raise such an impudent little wretch, so help me God." Tears burned the backs of her eyes. Modette winced as the nun knelt and her voice lowered. "I have never felt so ashamed. Do you know what an embarrassment you are to me now?"

"Yes, Mother… " she mumbled, gingerly rubbing her face.

"Do you know what I have to do to show you?"

Modette began to weep bitterly. She knew at once what this meant.

"And stop that crying." Froella clapped once. "I don't want to see you again for the rest of the week." And she flounced out of the room. She must have felt a little remorseful because she added: "No dinner for three days." And slammed the door shut.

 **Modette had never been in the pillory in** her life, but she had seen others being punished by it. Men who stole, men who cheated, lied. Did things disagreeable to the cathedral. Men who were criminals. _Was that what she was now? A criminal?_ Could God forgive a criminal?

It might have been the hottest day of the year. Not that Modette would know, being shut away like she was. But it was blazing out. She had to stand on a stool to properly brace her neck and arms. They began to ache and her neck was getting stiff. She wanted to drop her head, but if she did that, she would suffocate under its weight. Her vision was starting to go.

Around 12:30–the high point of the day's sun—the black spots began to come and go and Modette noticed a figure approaching. It wasn't Froella; who else did she know in the city?

… It was that gypsy boy from before. _Oh why, God; why tempt me again?_

He took a step towards her and Modette immediately began to struggle. "Please, please no—" For the love of God, he was going to get her in trouble.

Esmer put a finger to her lips. "Shhh. You're going to get me in trouble." He knelt to her level and revealed the mug hidden in his cloak. "I'm here to help."

Modette hadn't had anything since yesterday afternoon. She drank as fast as she could given the inability to tilt her head back. She had to slurp to get it in and nearly choked several times, but the boy didn't seem to mind. "Poor girl." He sat beside her, tousling her hair. "This is no way to treat a person."

Modette coughed for real as she tripped over the word. _Person?_ Like, a _real_ person? Not a pet or a plaything?

Finally, Modette had her fill and Esmer took the cup away. "I've got to go." He stood up, brushing himself off. "I'll be back tomorrow. When you get out of this thing, ask around for Esmer. I'm your friend." He flashed her a smile that was not scary but genuine. "Come on, Jolie." Then he scurried off, his pretty goat trailing behind.

Modette gave a wobbly smile. She was sure she could handle her punishment now. Two more days of this?

 _Ten_ more days of this.


	6. 6

**There was never a dull moment in the greatest** gypsy troupe in all of Paris. Clopine knew this better than anyone.

Three days after yet another successful Feast of Fools in Paris (well, until that wonky-looking girl stole Esmer's spotlight) a small lull took over Clopine's troupe. She was resting her eyes on top of one of the tents, enjoying the cool day, with Daisy on her stomach when she heard a cry:

"Clopine! Oh, Clopine" her subject Vadoma called. "There's some strange woman out here. Says she won't leave till she speaks with you. Make her go away."

Clopine swung down and immediately came face to face with the stranger, who had clearly never seen a gypsy woman be so brazen before. "Why, hello, milady. What brings you to my colony?"

"Good evening to you too," the dame said. Clopine dropped to the ground, landing on her feet- _a feat!_ The stranger kept glancing around, like she thought her kingdom untidy or something. And what's more she looked old, like maybe in her thirties. "I'm looking for the gypsy Esmer."

"Aren't we all. Sadly, he's not here; so if you could please skedaddle? You're frightening my people." Clopine cocked her head. "Say, you're with that pinched-up old hag lady, aren't you?"

"If you're talking about Froella, then I'll have to ask you to recant that statement. I am the Captainess of the King's Archers. The Captain is my cousin; _the_ Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier."

Clopine waited for the relevance of that statement to come crashing down. She was not impressed, nor did she look it.

"But if you say Esmer doesn't live here, then I'll be going. Sorry to have wasted your time; if you'll excuse me… " The dame headed out, but being a gypsy in France kept you on your toes long enough to notice things were not always what they seemed.

 **The dame was hanging around, clandestinely waiting for** Esmer to show. Evidently not clandestine enough. Clopine scuttled to the opposite side of the tent, Daisy close to her chest, to watch as Esmer came up behind the woman and grabbed her arm, pinning her against the wall in one swift motion. _Get her, sexy!_ "You."

"Easy, easy. You wouldn't hit a woman, would you?"

"I see no woman standing in front of me. You and that monster you work for make me sick."

"Oh?"

"Twisting the word of God; the city lives in fear." Esmer's eyes said he wanted to snap what he was holding. "The things you've done to my people… "

"With all due respect, sir, we're not here to discuss your personal issues; we're here to discuss my order from the Catholic Church." This dame was not afraid. She took the paper out of her breast plate and smacked it against his chest. "You are to stop giving water to that… girl. What's that lopsided lump's name?"

"You watch your mouth." Esmer snatched the note, skimmed it haphazardly. Then he balled it up. "And what if I don't?"

"I don't think you understand how the Catholic Church feels about you. How that nun feels…"

He tossed the note behind him. "I don't give a hot wet goat's butt what she feels about me." Clopine _loved_ him. "That woman is evil," Esmer continued. "If this is the way she treats her own daughter, then she's even more brutal than I thought."

"Okay, well…"

"If that's even possible."

The dame paused. "... Okay. Well, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Thank you for your consideration," Esmer said, ever the dignified, "but I'll be sure to stay on my toes. I always do."

As she turned to go, the dame swiveled back around. "Oh by the way, you should know my name's Phoebe. And you're in for a world of hurt."

"Esmer. But you already knew that."


	7. 7

**Days two and three came for Modette's punishment in the** pillory, and just as Froella had predicted, that gypsy boy appeared to give aid. That note given to him by Paris's best Captainess was simply a ploy- _gypsies don't follow the rules. They never have._

That gypsy boy sat on the ground next to her as he fed Modette from a mug. Froella hoped he didn't want that mug back. Sipping after her daughter when he could sip after _her_.

Froella watched it all from the window. In her daughter's room of the bell tower, where no one could see. The shape of his muscle peeked out from under the white rolled sleeve. No one could see her reach up into her habit and rub a hand between her legs. Smearing against it again and again for a whole minute.

His golden earring sparkled in the sunlight. She wanted to yank it out, reminding him what the Bible said about men wearing jewelry, then kiss his ear until it was all better.

He seemed like the kind of boy who came and went whenever he pleased. Who needed to be tied down. He seemed like the kind of man that grew up without a good spanking. She'd happily volunteer.

Disgusted, Froella yanked the curtains closed. She turned around and kicked one of those horrible gargoyles she told Modette to get rid of to the ground. It fell on the other and that one felt on the other, chipping its left horn.

 _Why were those gargoyles so_ heavy? _Someone was be bound to hear her now!_

Nevertheless, if it was the last thing she did as a nun, Froella was going to have herself a chat with this gypsy boy and expel these impure thoughts from the Church once and for all.

 **Froella knew Her Lady from the inside out and,** being a loyal servant of the Lord for thirty years, she could always sniff out something that was amiss. The riffraff was in here. Sure enough, there was that gypsy rat now with that blasted goat at his heels, going about. Wandering _her_ holy halls.

The nun wasn't about to let him get away and she slid up behind him, slipping her hand into his. "I won't tolerate any rabble in my Church," she whispered.

Esmer knew better than to struggle. "It isn't your Church."

"I'm head nun of Our Lady's highest order."

"Forgive me. Then I'll leave…"

"You and I both know you aren't going anywhere." Froella ran a hand down his back. "So typical of your kind to fly the coop at the first sign of regulation. But we could forget about it if… " And she sidled even closer to him and touched herself under her habit. She felt him stiffen and bit back a smile. "Why boy, this is the first I've seen you look uncomfortable. Don't be afraid."

"That's disgusting, Sister."

"I'll ask you to join me."

"Go to Hell."

Froella let out a short burst of laughter. "Careful, this is a cathedral. The eyes and ears of God are upon us. And I would hate if this little tryst got out to the public."

"What tryst?"

"I would hate it if you were accused of something heinous and you ended up… Hmm; would you prefer death by fire or hanging?" Froella walked her fingers up the boy's shoulder. "Well, if you were hung, that beautiful body of yours would at least still be intact." She stuck her tongue inside his ear and Esmer shoved her clean across the room.

 _That was fun._ Froella chuckled, recovering. "That was the wrong thing to do to a nun, hon." She straightened her habit. "Touch me again and I'll hand you to the law. May the judgment of God be upon you." She started to leave, awaiting his response.

Sure enough, the boy's voice followed her. "Go ahead." It bounced off the walls. "You were coming at me."

Froella stopped and turned around. "No, boy. You came after _me."_

She watched the boy freeze, his eyes darting around; she watched him run. Froella brought her hands together. "Lord, forgive him. For he knows not what he does."


	8. 8

**As Modette swam out of a confusing dream about the** sewage actually being alive and gobbling up the Notre Dame cathedral with everyone inside, she awoke to a loud… something. It sounded like cloth being swiped on stone. Sure enough, her eyes adjusted and she saw Esmer hefting himself over the balcony.

He flashed her a smile. "Miss me?"

"Esmer!" Her eyes flew to the door to make sure it was all the way closed. It was. "What are you doing here?" she hissed.

Esmer effortlessly propelled himself over the balcony and onto the floor, Jolie never far behind. He landed beside her bed and picked up the bottle on the nightstand. "I'm here to drink." The boy swilled its contents in one gulp then set it down, his face contorting. "Wow; Cabernet. Didn't have you pegged as a wino."

"We don't imbibe," Modette explained. "But sometimes Laverne will fly into town and take the wine. Even though Victoria and Hugo try to stop him."

"Who?"

"They're the garg-…" Modette's eyes flew to the stone statues in the corner of the room. Maybe she shouldn't introduce her imaginary friends, not when she had a real one in front of her. "Uh, nobody."

Esmer's eyes followed hers. He crossed his legs. "I talk to my goat sometimes. I could swear that she was somebody's spoiled child in another life."

"... You really should get out of here. If Mother catches you, she'll have you hung." That sounded so blunt and brazen that Modette almost couldn't believe it had come from her own mouth.

Esmer didn't move. For a minute she thought she had offended him, because he didn't talk for a long time. When he did, he looked tired and defeated. "... I can't," he admitted. "I've been trapped in this cathedral for hours. There are guards everywhere and apparently we don't do well inside stone walls."

"We?"

"Gypsies. I'm telling you, your mother is out to get us." Esmer's gaze flicked up to hers. "You too."

Modette believed every word that came out of his mouth. "I can get you out of here."

With his help, she managed to fashion a rope out of the bedsheets, table cloth and various clothes lying around on the floor. By the grace of God, it was enough to lower him to the ground.

"I don't know how to thank you," Esmer said sheepishly.

"Oh you don't have…"

But he took her by surprise with a kiss on the cheek. "Next time, you can come visit me. Let's go, Jolie." And she hopped into his arms as they took off into the night.

 _Was that a suggestion she just heard? Or an invitation?_

 _Did it matter?_

Modette touched her cheek. It burned, but she liked it.

 **The next day, she took him up on his offer, and that** night, with Esmer's hand on her back, he hurriedly guided her through the streets of Paris.

Modette's thoughts began to race. _This was good._ Finally, there would be people around to accept her. Finally, there would be people she could call her friends that weren't etched in stone. Esmer promised they would not hold her to an impossible standard of purity or perfection nor would they treat her like a discarded deformity like her mother did. And even though Mother would make her pay penance dearly, it was all worth it. He had promised and she could trust him… right?

Until she couldn't. What would happen then?What would happen if they took one look at her face and ran screaming for the hills? They would look at Esmer like _What did you bring in our camp._ They would say _"Take it out back and burn it!"_

If that were the case, she couldn't trust anybody ever again. If that were the case, then she would be left standing alone. Then she would be very sad.

Modette swiveled out of his grasp best she could, falling back in the middle of the rue. Esmer turned, giving her a puzzled look. "What's the matter?"

She clutched her shawl. "I don't want to scare them away."

He walked over and knelt down to meet her eye. "Because of appearances? My troupe is not like that, Mo. I told you; we've seen worse."

"I know…" And Modette sniffled, big and snotty. "But what if they ask questions?"

"Questions? Like what?" Esmer adopted an old woman's shaky voice. _"'Why is your face shaped like that, Mademoiselle? You look very strange.'"_

Modette giggled. "Well…" She exhaled. "I've been told that I look this way because my birth parents were unwed. God put a curse on me to punish them for their fornication. Mother came along and, doing a favor to them, adopted me. Rescued me. I lived in the convent of Notre Dame with her, hidden away in the bell tower, and she had me cleansed and baptized for years to reverse the curse. When that didn't seem to work, she took out the whip and told me the lashes on my back represented one sin each for both my father and mother. They were never saved. To this day, I still don't know what they look like."

Esmer's smile had faded. He studied her face for a while, for any possible indication that she was stretching the truth or not being entirely serious. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I didn't know that. I never knew my family either."

Modette shrugged.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She locked eyes with his, knowing now that there was nothing to be afraid of. "You never asked."

 **The following day, Esmer held Modette's hand as** he led her on a tour of his corner of the sky. There were people quite literally living in the streets. Women held their babies to their breast. Men had black faces-either from dirt, smoke or squalor; Modette couldn't tell which. Some of them were tap-dancing in the streets for coins. A lot of the gypsies she saw shut their looks away with hats and shawls in order to get the benefits- _oh yeah_ , Modette definitely knew how that felt. However, that didn't stop a Parisian walking by from stealing a hat full of tips and making the dancers start right back at the drawing board.

"Why are all the gypsies clumped on top of each other?" she wondered aloud.

"There's not a lot of space here; it _is_ the city," Esmer said.

"But that is bound to get uncomfortable. Don't they want to spread out?"

"Where would they go?"

"I don't know. Someplace that treats them better, I guess?" Modette lifted her shoulders and Esmer stared at her in a way that made her feel every bit like she had grown up tucked away in a bell tower. "Just wondering… " she muttered.

"Many of these people are just your average men who came to work in a new land to avoid persecution at home," Esmer explained. "They come here and get treated like cattle-those who don't get thrown away by the system. Their families follow them and try to make the best of what they've got."

"The system?"

"The Church. They hold all the power and they don't like folks like us. That head nun has the King wrapped around her finger and if she wants to deny us food or work or the resources for a better life, then by God it'll happen."

A small swaddled child reached for the flute his mother was playing with grubby hands. Modette watched as her friend's expression grew solemn. "I know I come on a little strong," he apologized. "But I don't call your mother evil for nothing. I just want the best for my people, that's all."

"I wish I could help."

Esmer smiled, tousled her hair. "Don't we all, Buttercup?"


	9. 9

**Froella frantically paced around her nuns'** quarters. The Captain of the King's Archers would be in any minute, but she needed her trusted _Captainess_ before her at this moment. "Phoebe," she called. That gypsy boy would like to drive her mad, drive her to commit acts of lust if it were up to him. "Phoebe!" Froella needed peace in her heart and she needed it now. "PHOEBE!"

The Captainess burst in. "Why, Sister, is something the matter? I heard what sounded like a dying animal in here."

"You're supposed to come when I call you the first time."

"I'm not a dog."

 _Thank the Lord for Phoebe and her bluntness. Trustworthy, unyielding Phoebe._ Froella could always confess to the priest, the way it was done by others in the Church, but she didn't like the feeling of being judged. "Tell me I'm holy."

"You're holy."

"Tell me I'm pure."

"... Sister, what is this about?"

"Tell me!" Froella yelled.

"You're the purest woman I know in this decaying town. Is this about that boy again? Want me to slice him to ribbons? My cousin can rough him up a bit and make his death look like an accident. Consider it his highest honor, ma'am."

"No, no, no." Froella waved the ludicrous idea away. "No. I want him alive, at least for now." Then, a bright idea came into her head. "Say… why don't you try to seduce him? Flirt. The public ridicule coming from a woman of class cavorting with one of the many street scum will be so much that the boy and that horrid troupe of his will be forced to flee. And the city can finally be cleansed."

Phoebe stood there for a moment, narrowing her eyes, deep in thought. "My mentor, my dear friend, my idealized image of the successful woman and a sanctified member of the Catholic Church wants her advisor, her fellow female who worked so hard to get where she was in the highest ranks of the King's Archers possible to _lower_ herself to the status of a cheap prostitute?"

Well, Jesus help her; when she put it like that, it made the plan sound downright sinful. But to Froella, what had to be done had to be done in order to purge the boy from her thoughts, the city and hopefully soon, the world.

However, Phoebe surprised her with a bow. "As you wish, Madame," she said.

 **When she heard voices behind the cathedral, Froella** hid behind the building. Not to eavesdrop, though—eavesdropping was a sin. Simply to make sure her advisor was doing her due diligence.

Phoebe was all on top of the boy, making conversation that was anything but light. "Hot day. Wearing this armor can get you sweaty." She took off her breastplate. "But I'm just so _hot_." Her eyes skimmed Esmer's. "Are you hot?"

"No."

Phoebe chuckled. "I'm patient. So what's your last name?"

"What's your last name?"

"Touché," she said, ever-charming. "Forgive me; de Chateaupers. My cousin is _the_ Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier."

The boy blinked, then exchanged a glance with his goat like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Phoebe took off the helmet and shook her hair, long and fair. Froella's hand came up to feel her short grey split ends. "Where are you from? Originally."

"Is this an interrogation?" he queried, sounding agitated.

"I'm asking you a question."

"It doesn't matter. I ran away."

Phoebe blinked. "I get that you're a gypsy and your backstory is a secret, but is everything a secret?"

"Yes, from the likes of you."

"Mmm, I like that. Man of mystery." There was a period of idleness, or what Froella liked to call awkwardness. And then Phoebe changed everything: "Can I at least rub your back?"

"What?"

"Please? It's the least a lady can do for a man." Froella could have shed tears of dismay as Esmer sat on the curb, tentatively like he was expecting Phoebe to report him, to which at this point Froella wouldn't mind nixing the whole plan in favor of. "You look tense."

"If I do, it's because of people like you."

Nevertheless, slowly he let her put hand on him. Phoebe kneaded the boy's back like bread dough. _Alright, already._ Froella grunted; her advisor was enjoying this way too much. She even put her mouth to his ear several times, once almost nibbling on it!

Phoebe purred and Froella clutched her habit. "You know I could take care of you—"

"Please don't speak to me."

"Right."

 _Oh, Phoebe was definitely fired._


	10. 10

**It hurt a lot, you know. Clopine had been** holding out for Esmer ever since he entered her kingdom nine months ago. And now he was off, doing God knows what? All she knew was that it didn't include her.

Granted she couldn't have everything she wanted, but come on. Who didn't want the Queen of the Gypsies? That was almost an immediate guarantee of unbridled power! Almost. It all depended on if Clopine felt like sharing.

But deep down, she knew that trying to tie Esmer down was like trying to keep a firefly as a pet. He needed to be free, else he'd shrivel up and die.

Then nobody would want him.

But that didn't mean much of anything! In her spare time, Clopine used to think up reasons to talk to him—bumping into him on accident, stealing something of his so she'd have an excuse to give it back.

(One time she took that purple scarf of his and waited for him to ask her where it was, but it went so long unmissed that she kept it under her bed to smell for strength.)

She'd creep in on his acrobatic practice. She'd watch him strip down and bathe. Of course, it was delicious.

Now he was being taken away from her by what? A four-foot tall, funny-looking nugget who seemed like she had just been born yesterday. And that may have been mean, but there were other things in the world that were unjust. Now it was up to Clopine to protect Esmer—not just from basically all of Paris and the French government and the Church all that. But from no one other than Modette the Funny-Looking Coquette.

 **Maybe that was why Clopine walked into the dinner tent and held** Modette at sword point. "Homely midget," she declared. "I challenge you to a duel."

A crowd formed around them. Modette's eyes flicked toward Clopine, to the sword, to Clopine, to Daisy… and she burst into tears.

Clopine dropped the weapon. _For Pete's sake, like… this nugget couldn't have any fun?_ The girl had clearly never been to a jousting tournament before. Which was exactly why people thought women couldn't do anything.

The crowd began to disperse. Esmer swooped in then, wrapping an arm around Modette to comfort her. "Clopine, that's enough," he reprimanded. "How is she supposed to know when you're kidding?"

But that's the thing—Clopine wasn't. She didn't care that the Modette the Funny-Looking Coquette bore no arms. All was fair in love and war.


	11. 11

**Froella could not stand** it anymore. That boywas trying his damndest to drive her further and further away from the word God, who took sole priority in her life. He probably wasn't even a Christian—those gypsies settled in Europe from all over the world, bringing all sorts of their filthy pagan religions with them.

She met with her priest, telling him the contents of her thoughts but not divulging too much information. He told her that he was disgusted, as was to be expected, but putting his personal sentiments aside. Told her to think about this long and hard. But she _had_ been—that was exactly the problem. She could not expel the dark-skinned, single-hooped, muscularly-toned, green-eyed gypsy from her thoughts no matter how hard she tried.

But Froella was a nun. She served the Lord first, then the Church second, France third. And what better way to honor her final commitment than make sure the capital of her home was scum-free once and for all?

 **Froella obsessively paced the same circle in** her quarters, until she heard a knock on the door. "Come in," Froella barked. Phoebe closed the door behind her and Froella let her have it.

" _Phoebe de Chateaupers!_ What in the world is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning of what?"

"Don't give me coy. Why were you all on top of him? The gypsy boy in that little performance you gave today. Rubbing his back, going like this with his chin and stuff… ? I need an honorable woman to be my advisor, not some rotten concubine."

Phoebe's jaw dropped. "Sister, listen… "

" _You_ listen!"

"I only touched him because it's what you asked me to do and pretty soon I'll be expecting a raise. My cousin too. Use some of your clout to do something productive. Convince the King to increase our pay, why don't ya."

"You come from a high born family of wealth and prosperity. You could have had any man you wanted."

"Hey, I don't want your little gypsy bum. I only did what _you_ asked of me!"

"That's enough! I'm not listening to this!"

Froella lifted her habit, grabbed the dagger concealed in her thigh and stabbed Phoebe right in the chest. She staggered and walked a bit before her knees gave.

"I knew I should have worn armor today…"

 _ **Oh God.**_ _ **Dear God, what had she**_ _done?_ Froella scuttled down the hall and tossed the knife out of the window. She smoothed her habit, her mind tick-tick-ticking. How was she going to cover this up? Then she knew…

During prayer, Froella walked into the foyer of Notre Dame, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Why sister, what's the matter?" the fools asked. "What's the matter, sister?"

"I went into the nun's quarters to do my daily devotional when I found my beloved Phoebe—Captainess of the King's Archers de Chateaupers—dead."

There were gasps among them. One let out a sob almost instantly.

"The rest of my nuns could have easily walked in on that God-forsaken, grisly sight I pray no one has to see." Froella flicked a tear from her eye and wrung her handkerchief. "That gypsy boy was the last person seen talking to her. I knew he was a bad influence on this cathedral, but I never dreamed he would stoop to this. And I was the one nun who wanted to give him a chance. Take him in, give him a meal…"

"Ten pieces of silver for the boy," one of the guards commanded and Froella was so overjoyed that she didn't mind him cutting her off. "He could be hiding in your cellars, on your rooftops. He could be hiding under your milking stools. For the love of God, at the very least let us help him repent for his crime. Lord knows his kind needs it the most."

The crowd dispersed, on the lookout for the boy who committed the horrible crime and Froella threw the snot rag behind her. (How could people carry those things around when they were in mourning?) She would ask forgiveness for cutting the thread of Phoebe's life later—it was much more important that the gypsy would be taken care of now.

 _Gypsy…_ ?

She could have sworn she saw a dark face beneath a babushka, their feet scampering away. Was there one of them here? Just a moment ago?

In these esteemed halls of the cathedral? _No. Never. Nonsense._

All the same, Froella's cunning smile began to slowly waver.


	12. 12

**Clopine hobbled out of the cathedral, waiting until** the church folks had scattered to yank of her babushka and white hair. She had been right about that old, wrinkled, dried, pinched-up head nun from the start. Why didn't anyone ever listen to her? Notre Dame—she was magnificent, but those who lived their entire lives by the cloth were bound to have it take a toll on their mind. And common sense.

There was not one holy bone in Froella's body.

Now she was going to cleanse one of the biggest cities in the world of one person. _Her_ person—her copain. This was not happening, no. Not if she and Daisy had any say so in it.

 **When she returned to her kingdom, Clopine had every** intention of informing Esmer of the evil witch's plot to have him hung. Nobody messed with one of her subjects and simply got away with it. She'd gather everybody in her troupe and they'd stage that uprising they had been plotting against Froella ever since they moved to Paris!

But the atmosphere around was not conducive to serious plotting. People were sleeping on the ground, on tables, drinks in hand. The rest were in the dining tent, eating and listening to probably that same stale joke Roma had told a million times, she bet. There was Esmer now, sidled up to that lily white nugget newcomer, laughing their heads off. Half-eaten bowls of vegetable soup and torn pieces of baguette lay in front of them. That was _her_ favorite meal. He was staring at Modette with those electric green eyes. _Her_ electric green eyes. She'd like to scoop them out of his head; she bet they tasted like mint ice cream. Then maybe—however ironically—he would finally see.

Clopine inadvertently squeezed her hand puppet.

"Ow my body, my body!" Daisy shrieked.

"Sorry."

Daisy lifted her little head and followed Clopine's eyes. "He's got a hoop earring," she said softly. "You love a man with a hoop earring."

"I know…"

"Tell him how you feel."

"Are you insane? I don't know what you're talking about," Clopine snapped, and began to pace. "Besides, I tried that already."

During that year's Feast of Fools, as a matter of fact. Before Esmer took the stage, Clopine said that she had something to tell him, but he told her to wait until after the show. And she never gathered up the courage to try again.

Until maybe now.


	13. 13

**One night, Modette approached Esmer's** tent. To tell him that she really liked it there and intended to stay. Suddenly, she heard a second voice. Modette peeked through the crack.

Clopine was sitting on a stool. "Daisy told me she wants us to have it out."

"Have it out?" Esmer asked, the mischievous glint in his eye back he bent to pick up the sword she used to terrorize Modette. "Has the time finally come that you'd care to duel with me? I warn you, I've picked up quite a bit over the years…"

"I'd like to eat vegetable soup with you sometime too, my subject."

 _Huh?_ Modette knew the girl was a little batty, but what in the world was she talking about?

But Esmer's playful grin had vanished, and he set the sword down in front of him. "Clopine—"

" _Co_ pine."

"You know how I feel about you but right now things are confusing. Can we just put this on hold?"

"I will not be put on hold. Do not put me on hold."

 _Of course._

Modette was such a fool to think the ugliest face in all of Paris would actually have a chance with the finest gypsy in all of France. _Everybody else's words, not his._ But she sure could agree with them.

 **Even though she wasn't the fastest girl in Paris, Modette** ran all the way back home before anyone in the colony could stop her. Crying her uneven eyeballs out. In her agony, the girl managed to climb the wall twenty-some feet, swing her feet over the balcony and land in her room. Just like Esmer taught her.

She sat on her bed, in disbelief that she had actually made it home free. Until she saw her mother standing over her vanity, waiting for her. Modette jumped up.

"I understand childish rebellion," Froella began slowly. "As you grow older I know I have to let you make your own mistakes. I just don't understand why you don't want to be with your mommy." The woman let out a sob of anguish. "I'm your _mommy!"_

The tears started up again. "I'm sorry, Mommy!" Modette ran towards her mother, only to have the enormous crack of the whip sound. It landed on her back and crumpled her to the ground.

"I love you, my daughter," Froella said coolly. "You know the rules; one crack for each sin."

This definitely took a while.

Modette lay on the floor that night, shivering, tears collecting in her ears and soaking the cold ground. Because no feeling was worse to her than laying your bloody bare back and your soaked wet head on a matted, filthy pillowcase.


	14. 14

**When Modette didn't return to the gypsy** kingdom during the night from whatever errand was taking her away, of course Esmer went back to the bell tower to look for her. Clopine plopped on a stool in the kitchen with Daisy, awaiting his return. This was a hugely dangerous move that Clopine would have liked to protect him from acting on, but whatever. _Let him go out and kill himself for that nugget_. Esmer would come dragging himself back to the colony by his stumps in no time, begging for one more chance. And Clopine would just stand above him and be all "Well… "

The door burst open. Clopine watched as Esmer carried Modette in her arms, who might as well have been an oversized sack of flour. He set her down on the table and Modette winced and squirmed like a newborn. The girl looked horrible. The medicine woman Nadia turned Modette on her side and Clopine could see why. She had never seen that many welts on one person's back—and so _deep._ Not since Old Man Danior had lost his cool about something petty and had cracked his whip on the backs of all the boys lying in front of him like a row of sausages. But that was only one time!

Maybe the fille had been enduring some abuse. _Not that it justified her trying to steal her Esmer away at all._

"Oh, this… " Nadia shook her head. "This is not love."

"What can you do?" Esmer probed. "Can't you heal her?"

"There are a lot of fresh wounds, my friend," she sighed. "The girl has lost much blood. But I think I'll be able to save her. Just let me get my concoction…" She headed back into the kitchen.

Esmer's knees buckled as Modette's eyes fluttered open and Clopine's heart lurched.

"Esmer… ?"

He collapsed into the nearest chair; Jolie hopped into his lap. She knew he had been beating himself up for not being able to protect her. "I'm here," he said. "Jolie too." And Clopine."My God, what has she done to you?"

"This isn't the first; she's done it to me for years. I should have stayed in the bell tower, like Mother wanted."

Esmer growled. "That horrid woman. I'll kill her… "

"I'll help," Daisy chimed in.

"No!" Modette cried in fright, then calmed down after a second. "You've done so much for me already. Just leave everything to me; I'll be fine."

"You call this fine?" Esmer snapped. "Look what she did to you. Look at your back!"

Modette tried to look behind her, but her little body couldn't manage it. "I'm afraid that's not possible."

Nobody laughed; everybody knew the jokes to be made in dire situations were reserved for Clopine alone. The nugget sobered. "I'm really sorry, Esmer."

"Don't you dare apologize to me."

"But I am. I'm sorry for everything I put you through. Sorry for making you worry—"

"That's enough!" And Esmer set the goat on the ground and spun around in his chair, facing the wall.

Modette pitifully tried to lift her head. "Esmer… ?"

"Don't be alarmed, soeur," Clopine whispered. "Gypsy men are not permitted to show their tears. He's doing what he has to do." Still she thought it would be much easier for his precious Modette to offer consolation if she weren't staring at his back.

Jolie trotted up to him, confused and amused, and Esmer moved her away with his foot. And Clopine thought with a chuckle that maybe, just maybe, everything would be fine.

… Too late.


	15. 15

**Froella was there to see** _ **the**_ **Captain Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier carry** Esmer off in shackles. As she predicted, the fool had returned to the Notre Dame cathedral once or twice in the past week, screaming his head off about "sanctuary for his people" or whatever, claiming they had a right to it. And Modette was still nowhere to be found. Oh, wherever she was, she'd surely come crawling back to her mother now. And then the _real_ penance could begin.

As the gypsy boy was being hauled off, he locked those dynamic green eyes on Froella. She waved sweetly.

He spit at her.

It lit her on _fire._

Froella cupped her cheek and ran to her room, locking the door. Slowly she took a look around, felt the warmth of the glob on the side of her face. And _what was she doing, what was she doing_ she put her finger in her mouth and sucked. Long and hard.

It tasted like… nothing.

 _Warm_ nothing.

She slid to the floor, touching herself as she had never before in her life. This would be her last chance to imagine the boy inside her. But she could give him one last chance to be hers. Of that, that was the least she could do.

 **Froella had to hand it to Monsieur de Gondelaurier; she had** asked him to play up the fact that his cousin was dead and he was shedding tears as he had not since reading Les Misérables. If he was a woman and she were his lover, Froella would throw a bouquet of roses at his feet.

"For the crime of committing murder against my dearest cousin Phoebe de Chateaupers, I hereby sentence you to death by hanging," he read. "Do you have any last words to say on your behalf?"

"Sanctuary," Esmer screamed. "Justice!"

Froella snorted. If he was trying to call out for his little gypsy friends, it wasn't working. God would always have the last word.

Captain De Gondelaurier rolled his eyes—Froella guessed he wasn't too happy about Esmer's little trysts with his cousin either. "Very well," he continued. "Guards?"

The guards approached the boy. They began to untangle the rope they brought.

"Hang the hell out of him, in Jesus' name I pray!" The nun turned several surprised eyes on her. _Did she just say that out loud?_ She covered her mouth. "That wasn't me."

 **Her guards slowly fastened the rope around** the boy's neck. The entire city of Paris was there to witness the hanging, and Froella was in the front, beaming with pride. At last, now there was nothing standing in the way of the treasured relationship between her and God and, despite the eyes all around, Froella laughed. It was short, and came out as a burst of release.

Suddenly, she felt herself being knocked off her special viewing place on the dock by a little hard body into the swampy water. All the times in her life she bathed her, she knew where that body came from—Modette.

 _What was she doing here? Who let her out of her room; one of the nuns?_ With all the sins her daughter had committed in the last few months, she shouldn't have been able to move for the next month or so.

Froella caught sight of Modette's furious face—the boy's coughing as that annoying gypsy girl sliced the rope, sending him crashing to the ground. She noted in equal parts sheer amazement and infuriated disbelief his ability to stay aloft solely from balancing on his tippy toes. But what did she expect? He was bound to be flexible; she _was_ an acrobat.

Finally, Froella came to her senses. She sputtered and spluttered, flailing her arms. "I can't swim! I can't swim!"

"Funny," the puppet on that skinny little gypsy broad's hand asked. "We all thought you could walk on water!"

The nun splashed around in the water, but by now everybody was just waiting for her to drown. "Phoebe, avenge me! Arrest…" But Froella didn't have time. She sank into the murky depths below. Nobody extended a hand to her. But she was okay with it. Now it would just be a matter of time before a raging mad God took his revenge upon these people. Especially upon that gypsy boy.


	16. 16

**Modette was panting, but not because she was** tired. _Dear God, what had she done?_ She had knocked her own mother into the swamp's jaws. She hadn't meant to. She had been sent over the edge as Esmer was in the middle of being hung and Froella was laughing. It just came out of nowhere. He would never forgive her for this. _How could he?_

Modette felt a lump grow in her throat as she thought of all she was responsible for. A hand came down upon her shoulder. She turned around. Esmer smiled down at her, like she had done a noble thing.

Well in that case… _maybe it was_. Esmer was hardly wrong before.

Meanwhile, the townspeople and the gypsies regarded each other in a mixture of joy and utter confoundment. Suddenly, Phoebe pushed her way to the front. "Oh, wow. You guys sank my master?"

"Cousin!" Fleur-de-Lys rushed to her side. "I thought you were dead."

"Nope. Never was."

"I thought the gypsy boy killed you," a rich old townslady said.

"Trust me; as much as I hate the gypsies I cannot tell a lie. 'Twas Froella who stuck the stake into my heart. If my heart were on my right side, that is."

"What a miracle!" de Gondelaurier cheered.

"Oh shut up. You knew I was alive this whole time."

"True…"

"Disperse, people!" Clopine called. "Nothing to see here." And the people dispersed.

"Well," Phoebe pondered. "Since things can't get any weirder around here, I guess this isn't beneath me. Hey, sexy!"

Esmer whipped around.

"When you get back to town, call me."

He smirked. "I'll do what I will."


	17. 17

**The next day was cloudy-sunny, and Esmer awoke to every single gypsy in the** colony hovered around his tent, waiting for him to come out. He was slightly embarrassed, seeing as he was still in his night clothes and he grabbed his wrap. "Hey, guys—what's going on?"

"We're here to make sure no soldiers, police, or any other form of law enforcement bothers you," the gypsy Roma said.

"Why would that be different than any other day?"

"They're on the warpath today," Vadoma explained. "They'll look at us as responsible for Froella's… end. Even though we weren't the ones to…"

They all peered over at Modette, who was peeking at them from behind a nearby tent.

"One moment." Esmer walked over to Modette and got on his knees to hug her. "Thank you so much. For everything."

Even though he was supposed to have been the one to protect her, which he felt bad about. But the little misshapen girl didn't seem to mind. "Thanks," she managed.

He didn't want let go but he did. "I'm sorry she was your mother. I mean that."

Modette took a shaky breath. "If she weren't, I wouldn't be the person I am today."

" _You mean the four-foot tall flirtatious nugget you are today!"_

Everyone shot Clopine a dirty look, and she bashed Daisy's head in.

"So. Where do we go from here?" Esmer asked, even though he already knew the answer. He would pack all he needed in a knapsack in record time and leave with his troupe for the next town. And Modette would…

"I want to atone for my sins," she murmured. "For what I did yesterday and for those of my parents. I want to find them. And help the poor, however I can."

"I'm so proud of you," he said.

"I also want to get surgery on my face."

"... Oh, really?"

Esmer must have allowed his face to fall because she quickly added, "So I can have a better life. Not because I believe I'm cursed or anything."

"Well, don't tell Clopine." He leaned forward to whisper in her ear: "But I always thought you were kind of cute." Modette froze, blushing furiously. He decided to make it worse and kiss her on the cheek.

"Chop-chop, subjects!" Clopine shouted, hands on her hips. "We haven't got all day."

"Yes, let's be able to tell our grandchildren we got out of here in one piece," Daisy chimed in.

"Thanks for giving me water." Modette said, her eyes glistening.

Esmer doubled forward, bowing. "You are a child of God, after all." He stood up, shaking her hand formally. "Goodbye, friend. Hope we meet again someday." And he took Clopine's hand—the one that didn't have the funny puppet on it—and walked off with the rest of the troupe towards their future.


	18. 18

**Before Modette left the city forever, she wanted to** stop by her home in the Notre Dame cathedral one last time. But not to her room, oh no. She needed actual _closure_ before she moving to… well, she would have to look for clues of her family's whereabouts later.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned." At least, that's what the people she read in books as a child said. Modette proceeded to tell the priest the whole ugly story—it all started she was born. She told him how her face had been the cause of all the trouble.

The priest was not supposed look at her. But it was a special request she made. So he climbed out of the box and stood across from her. He gazed upon her—bald spot, hunchback warts and all. He did not recoil in horror, but reached out and, ever so tentatively touched her face. With Froella gone, there was nothing left in the people's reactions but curiosity. Modette still kind of felt like a specimen. But at least not one that was cursed.

Maybe she didn't have to go so far in such a hurry after all.


End file.
